


The fear they can't see

by Jonah_Smith_907



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Descriptions of a dead body, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag this, It's been a while, Jon does not handle Jurgen's death very well, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, So much angst, The fluff comes later, i think, it's dark, light on the comfort though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 08:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30002322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonah_Smith_907/pseuds/Jonah_Smith_907
Summary: Set Mag 80Jon stared down at the bloody scene in front of him with wide eyes, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. He knew what he was looking at. Of course he knew, technically. And yet he couldn’t have put it into words if he’d wanted to. The smell of cigarette smoke in his nose was slowly being overtaken by the overwhelming scent of metal; heavy and sweet, so sweet it made his stomach turn and his eyes water, his fingers shaking, his legs frozen, his minddesperateto find a solution to a problem it didn’t know how to handle.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	The fear they can't see

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've written something, but since I've joined the fandom a few months ago, I've wanted to write something like this, so here you go, I hope you enjoy.

Mag 80.5

Jon stared down at the bloody scene in front of him with wide eyes, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. He knew what he was looking at. Of course he knew, technically. And yet he couldn’t have put it into words if he’d wanted to. The smell of cigarette smoke in his nose was slowly being overtaken by the overwhelming scent of metal; heavy and sweet, so sweet it made his stomach turn and his eyes water, his fingers shaking, his legs frozen, his mind _desperate_ to find a solution to a problem it didn’t know how to handle. 

He drew in a shaky breath and told himself he had to move, had to get rid of the evidence, get rid of that god awful pipe, stained red and slightly bent. He had to … he had to find out who had done this. Because it hadn’t been him, it hadn’t been, he’d been outside, stupid, had left Leitner alone in his office, alone in this hell on earth and somebody had come in and –

But who? He hadn’t seen anyone on the corridors, hadn’t heard any hushed talking, no sounds of a brutal pipe murder. Jon faintly noticed his legs starting to shake now, too, but he was too caught up in his own horror fantasy to do anything about it, too focussed on trying to find out who could have done this, swapping out names and faces, times and places, until suddenly his cruel mind conjured up the image of Martin, holding the pipe securely in his big, soft hands, giving Leitner a cold look of disdain, before violently turning the librarian’s head to mush. 

Jon’s throat closed up and he tried to breathe, tried to ban those pictures from his head, tried to think about something else, anything else, but to no avail. The scene repeated itself inside of his head, over and over and over and over and –

There was a hand on his shoulder. There was a hand on his shoulder and Jon knew it was there, because the warmth of it was burning his skin and the pressure was breaking his bones, but it was there and it was real, and soft, but he didn’t know who it belonged to; he didn’t know if that person was going to hurt him, if they were going to kill him, too, and fear gripped him. 

His eyes shot open – but they had never been closed, he was sure of it – and he broke away from that ominous hand; he stumbled towards his desk, towards the dead body and the bits of brain and bone on the floor until his numb legs gave out and his knees hit the floor with an audible thump. For a moment he just knelt there, head lowered towards the ground, his arms limp by his sides, his chest aching with every thin breath he took. 

There was a ringing in his ears and a tickle on his palm, but he could only stare at the spot of blood on his desk, directly in front of his eyes, like an evil smile meant for him. 

And then the hand was back. Except now there were two hands, one on each shoulder, firmly turning him around, despite his weak struggle, until he was facing the other man. It took a few long seconds, before Jon could work up the courage to lift his head and see who that was, crouching in front of him. 

Jon dragged his gaze up the man’s dark blue sweater that seemed familiar somehow, and passed by the delicate skin around his throat, past the freckles on his cheeks, until he reached those big brown eyes, that he would know anywhere, even if he was never going to admit it. 

It was Martin, his lips moving, brows furrowed, eyes wide and scared, but refusing to look anywhere else but Jon. The Archivist stared back, unsure of what to do. In the back of his head he could feel his own fear, whispering to him about the horrible things his assistant could have done, about the secrets he could be keeping, the danger he could be posing. 

But then he truly looked, searching for answers to questions he didn’t know. And finally, he saw him; all of him. “Martin,” he whispered, voice hoarse and low, but it was there. The other man nodded now, a short but relieved smile flashing across his face for just a second, his grip on Jon’s shoulders softening. Nice Martin, kind Martin, worried Martin, Martin who always brought him tea. Martin, whose eyes were always so full of warmth and safety and peace and Jon thought he could drown in those eyes forever, if only he’d have the courage. 

The ringing in his ears subsided and Martin’s moving lips made sounds now, his voice high pitched and scared, but of course he was scared. Jon knew that his assistant had to think that he had killed Leitner. It was his fault, after all.

“Jon?” Martin rubbed gentle circles into Jon’s arms, his eyes never leaving the Archivist’s face. “You with me? What happened?”

Jon opened his mouth to explain himself. ‘Everything,’ he wanted to say, but that wasn’t true, not everything had happened, only one thing had happened, but that thing was really bad, and it would only get worse, and he didn’t know who he could trust, but how could he trust the others, if they couldn’t trust him? And how could they trust him, when his fingerprints were on the pipe that turned a man’s brain inside out? How could anybody even stand the sight of him, accompanied by his paranoia these days?

He opened his mouth again, to at least give his alibi, but nothing came out. He sucked in a panicked breath and tried again, tried to push air through his vocal cords, but it wouldn’t work, and he remained silent, and Martin was still looking at him, waiting, so patient, and Jon was breathing too fast, he noticed it himself, but he didn’t care, he had to say words, had to make a sound, any sound! 

He nearly threw up then, the sheer panic rushing through him enough to make him dizzy, but before he could, Martin gave him a tiny smile. “It’s okay, Jon, you don’t have to talk right now.” His body went blurry before Jon’s eyes and then he was standing, reaching down towards him and waiting for him to take his hand. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, alright?”

Jon wasn’t sure that was a good idea. The murderer was still out there, nowhere would be safe, he was sure of it. And why was Martin being so nice? How could he even stand the sight of Jon, so weak, shaking and hyperventilating? But he seemed so sure of himself, so convinced a change of scenery would help, so Jon did his best to nod. It looked more like a crossover between a nod and a seizure, but it seemed to have been enough, since Martin gently took Jon’s hands into his and pulled him to his feet. 

After the dizziness faded, Jon could see himself being led out of his office, away from the twisted body covered in blood, but he couldn’t feel himself, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t understand what was happening to him. He could hear his shoes clicking in an uneven rhythm on the floor, but he wasn’t sure his feet were making the appropriate motions. Then he suddenly realized that he was sitting on a chair, his shoulders hanging low and hunched forward, his head barely lifted high enough to see more than his own skinny legs. 

He blinked slowly and Martin came a little bit more into focus, crouching in front of him with a cup of water in one hand and a towel in the other. Jon's eyebrows drawing together, he moved his eyes towards the towel. He blinked again.

Martin followed his gaze and gently said: “You should drink something. You’re pretty pale, you know.” He placed the cup next to himself on the floor and took Jon’s right hand into his. Jon was about to try and voice his confusion, but before he could, he looked down.

The palm of his hand was covered in dark blood, almost black in the pale light of the room. It had already gone cold. Jon got the sudden urge to cut off his hand, but he shouldn’t think that, normal people didn’t think these things, it wasn’t normal, stupid, stupid Jon! He flinched away from the grotesque mass of flesh and bone, that was so disgustingly attached to his arm, but he couldn’t pull it away, couldn’t hide it from his own eyes, because there was something holding on to it, the grasp firm, but soft and so achingly familiar, and he looked up and he recognized those eyes, those brown, calm eyes that were looking into him, until they knew every part of him, stripped bare and vulnerable. 

Jon took a breath. He carefully relaxed his hand now, his own, it was his, he shouldn’t have forgotten it wasn’t -

Martin wiped at the blood and Jon noticed the towel was wet, but it felt nice, so he let it happen. After a while, he was sure, he had to be clean now and after all, he wasn’t a child, but he liked the gentle motions, the slightly rough texture of the fabric and the soft touches of Martin’s fingers brushing against his own. 

They sat there, until Jon’s eyes started to droop, his chin steadily nearing his chest, until he slowly tipped forward and was met with the warmth that was Martin’s shoulder. He felt like that should bother him somehow, but it was soft and comfortable, and he was too tired to think and too scared to care, so he let his mind drift away, until his eyes fell shut and he was asleep. 

Jon woke up to a hand in his hair. There was a hand in his hair, gently massaging his scalp, and there was a blanket draped over his body and he was laying down and – oh. Oh no. Leitner, the body, the blood, _Martin_ – wait. 

Jon took a moment to breathe, still too tired to really panic. As he breathed, he noticed there was something in front of him. It took him a few more moments to realize, that he was curled up against a warm body, a pressure on his legs, that made him feel like he belonged right here, his hands curled into something warm and soft. He made a coarse sound of surprise and was immediately met by a soft voice, coming from above his head. “Jon?”

It was Martin. Martin, whose hand was cradling his head, letting him lay on his arm, so carefully running his fingers through the already greying hair. Martin, whose chest Jon was pressing his nose into. He made another sound, a little firmer this time, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the safety that was surrounding him so very nicely.

“It’s alright, Jon, we can talk about this some other time. Just … get some rest, alright? The police were here already and said you could make your statement tomorrow. You’re safe with me.” Martin paused and his thumb stroked over Jon’s cheek. “You know that, right?”

It was quiet, while Jon thought about it. He was sure he couldn’t trust anybody. He had known that all along and he’d been proven right, because one of them had to have killed Leitner and Sasha wasn’t Sasha and everything felt so cold and hopeless, but he’d never considered that he could be _safe_ with someone. That he could feel like a person and not like a hollow shell, always looking over his shoulder, always alert and awake and learning, knowing, hiding so much. 

He breathed in the scent of tea and archive, warm in his lungs and tightened his grip on Martin’s blue sweater, pulling himself closer to the other man and letting this warmth flow through his body, sinking into his bones and letting him nuzzle impossibly closer into the embrace. It had always been Martin, hadn't it. He took another deep breath, exhaling slowly and letting the tension in his body loosen. He could feel his mind go blank and let his eyes fall closed again. 

He nodded.

**Author's Note:**

> If there's any mistakes I made, please let me know, I was high during most of this writing process


End file.
